


Routine

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Beating, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Martin watching Malcolm be tortured, Restraints, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Martin wakes up groggy and confused, and doesn't know where he is. He finds this odd, of course, because he's been in the same place for twenty years.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme - Anonymous, Prodigal Son Trash Swap Spring 2020!





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [okayantigone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayantigone/gifts).



Martin wakes up groggy and confused, and doesn't know where he is. He finds this odd, of course, because he's been in the same place for twenty years. He wakes up, he pisses, he’s given breakfast. A fruit cup, eggs, bacon, oatmeal, sometimes a jello. He says hello to Mr. David, and tries to think of a brand-new way to kill him and escape (which is difficult after some seven thousand days of the same.) It’s all routine. 

No. Wait. The coma. The stabbing. His dear, dear boy...and the transfer. Of course. 

He’d been being transferred from the hospital, when...something had happened. He remembers the car jerking to a skidding stop, a lot of yelling, and then…

And then nothing. Why can’t he remember? He can’t be getting _that_ old, can he? 

He reaches up to rub his head, confused as to why it’s aching, and then finally realizes he’s bound. Chains around his wrists, leading down to the floor and attached to the wall he’s leaning against. 

Even worse, is when he looks to the side, he sees _Malcolm._ His boy, his beautiful, dear, sweet boy, slumped unconscious just out of reach, wrists and ankles bound with rope, tape over his mouth. There’s blood seeping from a deep wound on his head, matting the hair around it.

“Malcolm,” he says quietly, rattling the chains as he struggles to move. “Malcolm, my boy! Wake up! Wake--”

There’s the sound of a door opening, of boots against the concrete beneath them, and Martin flinches as the room is suddenly flooded with light.

“Well, now,” a man says, grinning. “How are you doing, Dr. Whitly? I’m so glad you’re awake. I was getting _so_ bored.”

“How dreadful,” Martin replies. “May I ask what’s going on?”

“So polite,” the man says, crouching in front of him. “My name is Finn Rig.”

_Rig. Meredith Rig._

Martin swallows hard. 

“Did that ring a little bell in your head, Dr. Whitly?”

“Yes,” he says, mouth dry. “I murdered your mother.”

Rig backhands him hard enough to split his lip against his tooth, and Martin doesn’t make a sound. 

“That wasn’t hard for you to say at all, was it?” He laughs, rubbing his hands together, and then gestures at Malcolm. “That’s your little boy, isn’t it? Your sweet boy.” 

“I killed her,” Martin says. “Not him. Don’t you touch him. Don’t you _dare_ touch my boy.”

“Oh, but...where’s the fun in that, Dr. Whitly?” He stands up, goes to Malcolm, and rolls him over, straddling his waist. Malcolm doesn’t move, though he does groan softly, and Rig smiles as Martin seethes, straining against the chains.

“I’m warning you,” Martin says. “You can do what you want to me. Not him. Leave him out of this.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Rig says. “And that’s exactly why I’m not going to.”

“What... _are_ you going to do?” Martin asks, though he fears he knows the answer already. 

And sure enough, Rig merely chuckles. He slaps Malcolm across the face, and Malcolm moans again, eyes finally flickering open. He doesn’t move for a second, and then he jerks as he takes in the situation, starting to squirm and grunt.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Rig hums, rutting down with Malcolm’s movements and rubbing over Malcolm’s chest, and Malcolm goes entirely still as Martin swears.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!”

“Does that upset you? Really? Just wait till I fuck him, Martin.”

Malcolm whimpers, trembling. Martin coughs, “You can’t--” and finds his own hands shaking as well.

“Watch me. Actually,” he laughs, “that’s exactly what you have to do. But _first…_ ”

He takes his fist, and sends it straight into Malcolm’s jaw. 

Martin cries out before Malcolm does. Rig rips the tape off Malcolm’s mouth, and Malcolm lets out a cry as Rig hits him again.

And again.

And _again._

“Stop!” Martin shouts, thrashing against the chains. “Please!”

“You care so much about him,” Rig says, continuing to beat Malcolm across the face and chest before standing up to kick him. “It’s bullshit. You’re a killer. You didn’t care for my fucking mother. I’m gonna kill this kid so _fucking_ slow, Martin, I swear to you. I’m gonna rip his insides out and make you hold them.”

“You fucking--” Martin starts, and then Rig is lunging at him, wrapping duct tape over his mouth and around his head and then banging it back against the wall to stun him.

“Shut the fuck up,” he pants. “ _Listen."_

Martin groans. He _whimpers._ He feels weak, and pathetic, and _pitiful,_ and yet as Malcolm is beaten he doesn’t care about himself, doesn’t try to stop the tears from running down his face. He struggles until he tears something in his shoulder, having to go still from the agony that burns through him, and then finally, mercifully, Rig stops.

He stops, and then he unzips his pants.

Martin starts to shout again. Muffled please choked down and unheard behind the gag. Malcolm is barely conscious, bleeding from his mouth and nose and nearly everywhere else that Martin can see, but his eyes flicker open and meet Martin’s.

“Dad…” he says, and Rig grabs his hair, positions him the way he wants him.

“Yeah,” Rig says. “Cry for Daddy.”

And then he shoves into him with no preparation, and Malcolm screams. 

Martin thinks he screams, too.

The assault is short, but brutal. Malcolm grunts, fighting as much as he can, and Rig laughs, only thrusting harder. “Keep struggling. Feels even better. I love it. Oh, I’m real close.”

He lifts Malcolm up to hold him against his chest and fuck him at a different angle, making Malcolm yelp, his bare feet slapping on the floor as he squirms. “So close...oh, fuck...so fuckin’ good...so good…” 

He pants, burying his face in Malcolm’s shoulder, and then gasps and curses as he empties inside of him. Malcolm goes entirely still, shaking and shivering, and then sags against the man with a whimper. 

“Did you just come?” Rig asks, reaching between them, and Martin is horrified when Rig laughs. 

“You did! I wasn’t even touching you. Sweet boy...you’re beautiful. I’m almost sorry I’m going to have to kill you. Don’t worry...you’ll be raw by then. Your pretty little cock’ll be drained dry. You might even be begging for it. Did you see that, Martin? Your boy came for me. Oh, such a _good_ boy.” 

He shoves Malcolm away, discards him on the floor by Martin’s feet. Martin has hardly any strength left. He can barely breathe, the tape nearly covering his nose as well, and his chest heaves as he struggles. Still, as Rig comes over to him, he lashes out with his foot and kicks it into Rig’s ankle.

“Cute,” Rig says. “I think I’ll fuck you, too, Martin. But that’ll have to wait for later.”

Martin snorts, wishing he could make a comment. Rig slaps him across the face as if reading his mind. 

“I’ll make it hurt,” he says. “You’ll beg to die, too, just like you were begging for your boy. How did that feel, by the way, baby?” He nudges Malcolm with his foot, and Malcolm moans, curling up. 

“So good he’s passin’ out,” Rig says. “Love that. I’ll be back for you, baby...and you, Martin.”

He leaves, and Martin is immediately struggling again, grunting to rouse Malcolm.

Malcolm moans softly, and Martin is starting to have trouble seeing straight as his chest burns for more air than he’s getting. He nudges Malcolm with his foot, grunting again, far more desperately, and Malcolm finally looks up at him, tears dripping down and off onto the floor.

Martin jerks his head, trying to reach up to his face, and Malcolm, smart boy that he is, understands. He crawls forward, fits himself into Martin’s lap, and Martin grips onto him tightly as he uses his teeth to try and pull the gag down. His teeth scrape against Martin’s cheek, his beard, and Martin can’t help a groan from escaping, lifting his head and turning it to give him a better angle. 

Finally, Malcolm manages to pull it down, and Martin gasps, catching his breath for a moment before saying, “Thank you…”

“Dad…” Malcolm whimpers, pushing his face against Martin’s neck. He sounds so small, so terrified. “Daddy…he...hurt me…”

“My boy,” Martin says. “My boy...I’m so sorry. This--this was never--this was never supposed to happen. I’m so sorry.”

He can barely manage to fully grasp Malcolm’s arms in this position, but he does it best he can, giving him any comfort he can manage, whispering to him as he cries. Malcolm doesn’t move away, clinging to him like he hasn’t since he was a single-digit child, and God, Martin loves him so much. 

Martin loves him _too much._ Martin shouldn’t love him as much as he does.

And yet...Malcolm is his to love. Who else should, if not him? Certainly not someone like _Rig._ Disgusting bastard. Martin will kill him. Martin will rip his heart from his body while it’s still beating for what he’s done to his son.

Malcolm seems to fall asleep on him, and Martin leans back against the wall, does everything in his power to keep him as comfortable as he can. 

And then the door slams open again, and Malcolm cries out, startling out of sleep and trying to get closer, and Martin startles after a moment when he realizes the poor thing is so frightened he’s wet himself. 

He won’t let Rig touch him again--he won’t, he can’t--if Rig wants him, so be it, he can fuck Martin as much as he wants, just _not Malcolm--_

_“Police!”_

Martin breathes out, and shouts, “Here!” and then, far softer when Malcolm flinches, “Malcolm...Malcolm...it’s okay, now. My boy...my boy…I’m so sorry…”

They try to take Malcolm away. They slice the rope around his wrists and try to coax him out of Martin’s lap, and Malcolm refuses, clinging to Martin so tight he can barely breathe.

This...this is a good feeling. To be so wanted, so _needed,_ by his son.

“Free me?” he asks.

“We’ll need bolt cutters,” one of the officers says. “But for now, you can stay chained like you deserve. Someone get his kid away from him, for God’s sake.”

“Daddy,” Malcolm whimpers, and Martin growls at them. 

“Don’t you touch my son! Let go!”

“No!” Malcolm cries, fighting against them. One of them shouts that he’s not a child, and then shuts up once he sees the blood between his thighs. 

“Let him go,” Martin pleads, and the officer does. Malcolm scrambles back towards warmth, to where his father can’t hold him but is _trying so hard,_ fingers just wrapped around above his elbows. 

“I love you, my boy,” Martin tells him. “Don’t you forget that. Please.”

“I love you,” Malcolm says, for the first time in years. “Please...please...don’t let go, don’t.”

“I’m trying, Malcolm. I am.”

The medics sedate Malcolm, dragging him out of Martin’s lap, and Martin fights the whole time. He snarls and tugs and then _weeps_ as Malcolm is taken away from him, head lolling as the drugs take effect, tears drying on his face.

“That’s my son!” he shouts. “You be careful with him! That’s--”

_My son._

_My everything._

It’s two weeks before Malcolm can visit, and as soon as he does, he’s crossing the red line and grabbing onto Martin before he can even turn around, before Mr. David can stop him. Martin wouldn’t have let _anyone_ stop them, anyways.

“My boy,” Martin coos, cradling Malcolm close. “Oh, my boy.”

“Don’t...don’t let go,” Malcolm says quietly.

“Never, Malcolm,” he replies. “I promise. Never again.” 


End file.
